The Brave, The New and The Young
by NineStoicCrayolas
Summary: Hermione dies. And is then transported back to the Marauder's Era.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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It happens in the space of a second.

Her breathing is hard. Sweat tickles the nape of her neck, the matted curls on her hair feeling slick with sweat, mud and gore.

She can feel the sting of hexes and curses being thrown, the brutality of the green flash.

Someone goes down next to her.

She turns.

Pale skin, sightless blue eyes, dark hair.

It happens in the space of a second.

" _No!"_

Someone screams.

She's so tired.

A flash comes—and

It stings.

The breath is punched out of her.

She can see agonized green eyes, a gaping mouth and then—

 _Oh. Hello, Mum._

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Tell me what you all think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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"Are you alright there, love?" A kind voice said softly. Fingers brushed hair out of her eyes, "You gave us all a nasty scare, my dear. I'm just so glad they got you out of the river! Wouldn't have liked going to another young'uns funeral."

The voice was faraway, as if underwater and Hermione groaned, whimpering a little as someone edged her arm out from underneath her.

"There, there my dear." The soothing voice said once again, reminding Hermione of Mrs. Weasley and her familiar crooning voice, warmth spilling at her seams. "Easy, easy. You did fall off the Blackfriars bridge, after all."

 _(Flashes of a woman with crazy dark eyes flitted in front of her, words filled with loathing, "Nasty bitch! You're no daughter of mine! How dare you—"and the rushing of the water, black, rising towards her, the muggy smell of waste hitting her nose as she cut through the air.)_

Hermione whimpered in pain as someone slipped thick fingers into her clenched hand, prying her death grip loose, the joints nearly breaking from the brittle feeling that had enveloped them.

 _("Avada—"and then, "No!"—which one, which one—green, green eyes, a gaping mouth, lips moving—a scream.)_

Her eyes fluttered open and she winced, pain searing in her head as she tried to blink away the bright, fluorescent light that shone down on her mercilessly. Her head was pounding and she could feel the throb of thick, slow, red infection settle in her bones, as if her whole body was revolting against the motions that the hands, the thick fingers, were making her do.

"What's—What's going on?" Her voice was dry as it fizzled in the air, as if she'd never spoken a day in her life before, as if she'd never opened her mouth to speak clearly. "Where am I?"

Large, dark brown eyes came into view, tears lining the lashes. A round, high-cheeked face looked down on her, red lipstick on plump lips. Long, sleek black hair hung in a thick braid from her shoulder and Hermione felt it tickle her forehead as the woman leaned down to brush hair out of her eyes again.

"Who are you?" Hermione croaked out, trying to wipe at her eyes.

"Hello, love. I'm Mrs. Porter. The agency left you with me." Pity shone in the dark brown eyes and Hermione found herself frowning— _the agency? What agency? They were in the middle of a war!_ —"Your Ma's going to prison so there's no need to worry."

"What?" Hermione whispered. "Mum's…what…where…no,"

 _Her mother? Going to prison? No, no, her mother was dead. Her mother had died—she had died, they told her so._

( _She could remember the taste of metal on her skin, those crazy black eyes staring down at her, vicious words twisting that beautiful face—"You make me sick.")_

Hermione felt panic rise in her throat, choking all efforts of conversation. Her breathing quickened, her hands spasmed as she felt pain vibrate through her body. Everything was hot, hot and sticky and she felt like her head was going to explode if she didn't get any air.

"Hush, darling." Mrs. Porter soothed, running a hand down her arm and Hermione flinched, "Hush now. You're safe, you're safe. There's nothing to be scared of here, love. That woman's not going to find you anymore, she's not going to hurt you. The good guys are here, now."

Something in Hermione calmed at those words, a brush of past memories—that unknown, yet familiar, woman screaming harsh words from pretty lips flitted in her mind—and she struggled to regain to control herself. She knew, vaguely, that tears were streaking down her cheeks, but the heat of her face, the heat of the infection just under her skin had her forgetting. Her fingers twitched as Mrs. Porter ran her fingers in her hair, dragging the fingertips across her skull.

Hermione sucked in another shuddering breath, her body still shaking, before she brushed the tears away with a shaky hand.

As her fingers brushed away the remnants of her sobs, she stopped.

She stared at her hand.

 _Her pale hand_.

When one looked at Hermione Granger, they would see a collected young woman, one with intelligent chocolate brown eyes and a nice, firm smile. They would see a cloud of fuzzy, bushy hair that stuck out everywhere, random curls forming at the base of her neck and the crown of her skull, never to be tamed or pushed down, incapable of being anything but the kinky, shaggy mess that it was and forever would be. They would see her struggling with mountains of books, ink staining her hands, callouses lining her fingers.

They would see her—dark hands, dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair—a witch to be feared, a witch to be wary of, if not terrified.

Hermione stared at her hand.

She had…she had pale skin. White skin.

Milky, lighter than even Ginny's, dotted with faint freckles and short, stubby fingernails that had chipping blue nail polish on them, gold stick-on stars on each digit. They were small hands, dainty in their nature and she could just imagine sliding on pretty, silk gloves, satin, in the same milky-white color they were now, the lace fitting her perfectly. They were princess hands, not one callous in sight, not one ink-stain, not one shakily written reference on the back of her palm, no _nothing._

(No dark skin marred by years of living.)

She had pale hands.

 _Hermione had pale hands._

It was then, sitting in what she later knew to be the hospice room, that her heart began to beat wildly in her chest, the sensation of wrongness, of finality and utter _betrayal_ began to seep through her skin, reaching her bones.

It was then that she began to realize just why, exactly, something felt unfamiliar the moment she woke up.

* * *

Hermione sat on the rickety old chair, a stricken look on her face.

Her mind was racing, her fingers aching to pick up a pen and write away, begging to outline ideas of just how—just _what_ —she was doing in a different body.

They had put her in her new room at the 'Institute' as Mrs. Porter called it and told her to make herself at home.

It was a nice room, really. A small, yet comfortable bed with a squeaky mattress sat next to the window which showed a busy street, the train passing right by her head, ugly smoke clouding her view every now and then. It was painted a mint green and had a threadbare red carpet on it with a pair of brown loafers sitting on it, turned towards the bed. A painting of the sea sat on the wall, swaying when the train ran past and mirror with a creaking desk sitting underneath it, a nice wooden chair tucked into it.

The chair she was currently sitting on was tucked in the corner facing the window and the bed, near to the desk and painting and she was curled up on it, the blue pillow underneath her crinkling with old stuffing every time she shifted.

It had been nearly four hours ago when the kind, familiar and yet unknown, Mrs. Porter had escorted to it and she still hadn't moved from the rocking chair, her eyes fixed on an indent in the wall, occasionally drifting to the window when thick, black smoke crossed it.

Desperately, she searched her memories—but the last thing she remembered from the frigid green flash was shocked, angry, grief-stricken green eyes and a gaping, moving mouth curled in a scream. She had tried, over and over again, to rationalize what she was going through.

Perhaps it was an elaborate prank that George and Charlie had pulled on her, making her drink the Polyjuice Potion and setting her up somewhere safe like Harry and Ron had pleaded her to do. Maybe, she had even thought quite creatively, this was just some string of lucid dreaming that was awfully realistic—a new blend on the Happy Dreams Potion Luna had concocted the third year the war waged on, that helped to restore the frail happiness that threaded itself in the air, barely able to hold back the tide of the destruction and desperation that had come with the war.

Again, she roved her hands over her new skin—her new _body_ —and she ignored the way her fingers trembled as they found the familiar scars on her skin, the bumpy lettering of _Mudblood_ , the thick, purple scar on her chest, the nick at her neck, the aching burn at her thigh that, even with the skin-regeneration potion Pomfrey had given her, still wouldn't go back to normal.

 _If she had a new body, why did she have her old scars?_

Tears came to her eyes as her hands traveled over the thick, carving scar in her abdomen. That had been the raid that Neville had died on, when she had flung herself in the way of _Sectumsempura_ , only to have him bleed out next to her, his brown eyes filled with tears as he struggled to thank her for not leaving him.

A knock came at the door and she jumped, blinking away the tears quickly.

"Oi!" An unfamiliar voice called out, harsh and uninviting. "You reckon you can open the door? I'm your new neighbor."

 _New neighbor?_ Hermione frowned. _Just what is this place?_

"It's a fucking orphanage, lass." At the nasty voice's reply to her thoughts, Hermione realized she had spoken aloud. "Now can you open the door or not?"

She stared at it, contemplating.

For all Hermione knew, it was all a dream. She could wake up in the next minute, gasping in a tent in the middle of nowhere, her hands clutching at her chest, Harry to her right, Ron to her left. She could have dozed off from reading too many stacks of books on Horcruxes and _Curses on Love_ , desperately trying to find some kind of _solution_ to end Voldemort's insanity.

It probably wouldn't hurt to open the door.

It was, after all, probably just a dream.

Hermione got up on shaky legs, a shy, brave smile curling her lips as she made her way towards the thick, oak door, her hand trembling as she reached for the brass doorknob.

She found herself staring at narrowed black eyes, a sneer sitting on a pasty face. Pale-blond hair sat in a coif on his head and freckles ran rampant on the bridge of his nose. His cheeks were red and his lips were chapped and ashen, as if neglecting the use of chapstick his entire life.

"Hullo." Hermione said dully, her smile long disappeared. He reminded her of a Malfoy lone gone, yet curdled by the ghosts of the past, anger and rage simmering in cold eyes. "I'm Hermione."

The boy looked at her for an odd moment before the edges of his mouth turned downwards.

"I'm Edward. Edward Gibson." He said snootily, a pale eyebrow raising at her tiny form. "And you are?"

"I'm Hermione Wells."

She blinked.

 _Wells?_ She frowned. _No, my name's Hermione Granger. My name is Granger, Hermione. Not Wells._

"I mean Hermione G—Wells."

She blinked again. Frustration welled in her chest and she gritted her teeth.

 _Her name was Granger._

"Whatever, Wells or Ga-Wells— _whatever_ you're called, it's time for dinner. Porter gets antsy when we don't go downstairs right away." The boy sneered, obviously unimpressed with her stuttering. "If you're late, the little kids will eat your pudding. Better hurry, _Wellsie._ "

"It's Gra—"She got cut off with a shriek as a lick of pain traveled up her spine and the boy just stared at her.

"You're the weirdest fucking thing that's walked in here since Waldo left. And that's saying something. He ate bugs for breakfast."

Then he turned on his heel and left.

Hermione gaped, furious both at the strange, unwanted boy and at _herself_.

 _What kind of dream is this? I can't even say my own name? And who eats bugs for breakfast?_

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So! Tell me your thoughts! I'm going to try and write longer chapters but hey, this is what I've got for now. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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Hermione Granger had loved to read.

If there was anything that she had ever enjoyed, it was flipping through the pages of an opened book, the words sitting in neat, typed lines, ready to be gleaned of knowledge. There was something magical about _understanding_ what was written down on a page, something beautiful about the fragility of a word—how it could be taken, how it could be remolded and interpreted into something _else_ —that Hermione loved when reading.

Her eyes would travel across the pages, a small, neat smile on her face, her lips curled upwards, her hair hanging loose and in waves against her back, occasionally sliding forward and blocking her view. She was at peace when she read; immersed in another world, a prettier, better, more engaging world where the words _just made sense._

Hermione Granger had loved to read.

And when she was in her fifth year of Hogwarts, desperately trying to find new theories on Tom Riddle's immortality, she had stumbled across a little prize of knowledge. A little kernel that planted a seed that bloomed into a thought that turned into _action._

She had been flipping through old textbooks, her hair gone wiry and curly, her butt beginning to get numb from how long she had been sitting still, her eyes tired and pulling at her lids, ready to go to bed when she had found it.

The coinjoint soul theory.

She had stumbled upon the words quite by accident really, her eyes barely skimming over the page, looking for terminology that related to horcruxes when she had blinked her way down the phrases, getting snagged on four little words that seemed to stick out more than most.

Hermione had glanced at it briefly, yawning as she traced the words with her finger, _"_ _The spell is cast with incredible power—be it anger, fear or love—and the effect should be one that transports the soul into a body that shares its characteristics. It does not guarantee immortality, however, unlike the horcrux that belonged to Harpo the Foul, yet it has the ability to keep one from succumbing from their first lifetime."_

She had been curious, even going so far to delve deeper into enthralling muggle articles that spoke about the multiverse theory, the debate about how much did a soul weigh, if you could return from death—and yet she had dismissed it, knowing that there was no way someone like Lord Voldemort would indulge in something that would completely set back his plans, no matter how many more years he would have.

The Dark Lord had wanted immortality not merely a longer life.

Besides, she had yawned, the thoughts still buzzing in her brain despite her exhaustion, there was very little possibility of someone harnessing enough power to transport a dying soul into another, older or younger body.

It was this memory that she drew on as she sat on the bed, her eyes wide, tears trickling down her cheeks. The memory of the warm, fuzzy feeling she got from staying up too much in the library, downing coffee after coffee, her hair curlier and curlier as she ran ink-stained fingers through the mass, trying to calm her buzzing thoughts.

It was this memory that she drew on when she woke up on the second morning.

 _The second morning she'd woken up as Hermione Wells._

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was peeking out from behind dark, thunderous storm clouds, last night's storm washed away by the soft, morning rays. The train had not gone by in a while and Hermione couldn't hear the death-rattle that it brought either, the room staying a quiet space. The sky was a soft blue with streaks of hearty yellow and pretty pink punctuating it, the last echoes of night slipping away into day.

And yet, it was the _second_ morning.

Her heart squeezed in her chest, the air stuttering in her lungs as she raised trembling fingers to her face, tracing over the unfamiliar features, still unused to the paleness of her own skin.

She let out a low whine, as if the grief couldn't help but escape her, choke her down and she buried her face in her hands. Her breaths were quicker now, her shoulders heaving as her thoughts skittered in her mind, ready to bubble from her lips in a high-pitched scream.

 _This is not happening_ , she thought frantically, _please—please don't let this be happening._

She remembered yesterday night, her relaxed air, the friendly demeanor Mrs. Porter had displayed, the kind yet intrigued smiles that had been sent her way.

 _There was no other possible way other than the theory._ She knew this. _She knew._ But—But—

She remembered the night before that one. The night where she—where she had _died_ —the suffocation of a black, toxic cloud. The flash of green and static in her ears—the sound of someone screaming. The emptiness of the void, the bleakness and slow, deterioration of the mind.

Hermione did not know how long she had spent in that void.

And—and worst of all—was yesterday. When she had woken up, choking on the black water of the Thames, her mind reeling—memories that weren't _hers_ flickering through her mind and—

 _It was a dream—it was supposed to be a dream!_

She couldn't—wouldn't—go through that again.

A sob escaped her lips.

"Blimey, already crying?"

She raised her eyes to the doorway where Edward stood, his nose held high, beady black eyes riveted on her face.

 _You're not real. Not real. Not real. Can't be real._

She had died. She was dead. This was just some skewed—

 _("The effect should be one that transports the soul into another, twin body." She had smiled. "Interesting." She had said—and now—no—no—no—this can't—"It has to be cast with incredibly power—love—" Green eyes. A gaping mouth. Moving lips—Harry?)_

"And here I thought you'd be the different one. I'm surprised you didn't burst into tears yesterday though. _I_ would with my mum throwing me off the Blackfriars Bridge."

If Hermione had woken up in a different era, ready for war, she would have overlooked the snappish attitude. She would have gritted her teeth at the vicious words, knowing that everyone was a little testy lately. She would have smiled or maybe even sighed, knowing that her eyes were just as dead as theirs, just a broken, just as lost.

Yet she had not.

She had woken on a pretty morning in an _institute_ that was unknown to her, full of people who seemed to already know her, her lips carving out a name that _wasn't hers._

So, it was with great relish that she snapped furious eyes to his, a snarl on her lips, "Oh shut _up_ , you horrible, nasty little boy! Go away, worthless little _toad._ I didn't ask for your ruddy opinion!"

The boy reared back and for a minute, Hermione felt guilt surge up inside of her but she quickly pushed it down, far too angry and lost to control her feelings.

She was stuck—stuck in a different time, a different life, a different _body._

She had _died._

( _She remembered the swirling vortex of nothingness, filling her up, curling around her lungs—tearing out screams—no. No.—it has to be—a dream.)_

"Fine." Edward spat, his cheeks lighting up in a furious blush. His words and anger dragged her back to reality. "I'll leave you to sob by yourself like the pitiful little girl you are."

 _I am not a little girl._

Rage so fierce and hot burned under her skin and she felt her face twist into a snarl. Something was itching in her veins, begging to be let free and she felt the power of her magic _far_ too late. It sung under her skin, in her bones, at her fingertips and before she could stop it, it escaped her in a fury of sharp flashes and the bang of the door.

She gaped.

 _Accidental Magic._

"Y—You-You _freak!"_ Edward screeched from behind the door. " _Don't_ come near me again!"

She heard his footsteps rapidly descending the stairs and his harsh breathing but she was far too shocked to move.

 _Accidental Magic._

How long had it been since she had had an outburst like that? She barely even remembered anymore. Her magic had become so precise and fierce during battle that this—this feeling—the itching of her skin, the tightness of her knuckles, the twitching of her mouth—was unknown to her. _Her_ magic was subtle and _dangerous_ like a blade that was only to be wielded by the finest.

 _This_ magic…it didn't feel like hers.

This magic was clumsy and _strong_ , fierce and pushy, as if subjecting _her_ to _its_ whims. This magic was not easy and stable and calm. No. This magic was like sticking your hand in a roaring river and expecting to control it. It was harsh and bludgeoning and—

 _Wait._

Magic.

Tears filled her eyes.

 _She had magic._

A sob escaped her lips.

 _She still had her magic._

It took her two hours to come to terms with the fact that she had woken up in the same place, the same _institute_ the second morning. It took her two hours of sobbing into her pillow, her fingers clutching at her hair, raking down her cheeks, her body shuddering with grief and rage and _fury_ before—

Before she sat up.

"Okay." Her voice was hoarse and unused. "Okay. I still have my magic."

It was the only highlight in this new reality. If it even counted as a new reality—the conjoint soul theory was just that— _theory._ No one ever expected it to work, no one wanted to find out what it was like to wake up in another twin-soul, another body, decades earlier or later.

She closed her eyes, trying to stave off her ragged breaths.

"I—I need to make inventory." She told herself quickly, dragging herself out of her stupor. Tears still stung her eyes. Her lips still trembled. Her hands were shaking as she moved off the bed. "I need to make sure I'm—that I'm—I—"

"Take a deep breath, Hermione." She whispered to herself, closing her eyes against the sobs. " _Breathe._ Step one: I need to find out in what world—century—year—month, day I'm in. Step two…I need to find out if I'm in England. Oh no—no wait. He said Blackfriars. Blackfriars is on the Thames. Okay. Okay."

The panic was getting worse. Her skin itched, her magic flared, levitating objects randomly and she wished for nothing more than to huddle down in a corner and sob her heart out _again._ But no. She couldn't.

She couldn't because someone— _someone_ —had given her another shot. She didn't know how—the conjoint soul theory was messy and _grossly_ misunderstood by the magical world—but she had to do this. She had to somehow…

Her lip trembled. She bit down on her tongue _hard._

"You are here." She whispered furiously. "You are here whether you like it or not. Whether you wanted it or not. You—You cannot go back."

Tears stung her red-rimmed eyes and she felt them slide down her cheeks. Another sob rose in her throat but she tugged at her hair knowing the pain at her scalp would distract her enough to concentrate.

"Breathe. _Breathe."_ She begged, hoping her lungs would listen. "You have to—you have to—Get. Through. This."

"Hermione?" A kind voice floated into the room.

She jumped. Quickly wiping away her tears and tucking her hair behind her ears, she pasted on a smile.

"Um, yes?" Hermione answered, hoping that whoever was at the door would just _leave._

"Is everything alright, dearie? Eddy was in a little bit of a fit when he came to drag you out of your room this morning. Told me you were a freak—obviously I don't condone that language but—but well, darling, if you need to speak to anyone about…your mother…well I just wanted to tell you that I am here." It was Mrs. Porter, Hermione realized. It was Mrs. Porter that was speaking at the door.

She loosed a sigh that sounded a little like a sob.

 _("If you need anything, dearie, just tell me." Mrs. Weasley patted her hand, her eyes shining with sincerity.)_

"I'm just—" _in a different reality. A different body._ "—A little overwhelmed."

"Ah," Mrs. Porter seemed to agree behind the door and Hermione could imagine her nodding. "Yes. You did seem pale at dinner yesterday. A little delirious too…you kept giggling at the most mundane things. Still…I'm a little worried, darling."

Hermione grit her teeth and began to pace the room. "It's really— _really_ —fine. I was just tired. And 'cos you know…my mother pushed me off a bridge."

Hermione winced.

The memories of her—this?—body were appearing rather quickly, taking a hold of her mind. She could remember a mother, dark hair and crazy eyes, always drinking, always smoking; with long red nails and a row of straight, yellowed teeth. She was beautiful though. Hermione remembered the men that caved to her wiles, their dazed eyes and the breathless hitch in their voices when her mother spoke to them, her red, red lips curling around sugary sweet lies. She could remember a father—vaguely—with red hair and calm gray eyes—who—who died—

Breathing out a harsh breath, she blinked away the tears.

She was Hermione Granger before she was Hermione Wells.

 _She was Hermione Granger before she was Hermione Wells._

"I understand, Ms. Wells." There was a long silence before Mrs. Porter continued a little awkwardly, "Lunch is on the table if you're hungry. I've even made extra rashers, just for you!"

"Uh—ah—um—Thank you." Hermione rushed out, pacing the room. "Sorry—just—Thank you. I'll be down soon."

Mrs. Porter left after that and Hermione sat on the floor with close eyes, trying to breathe through the panic that threatened to choke her.

 _What was she going to do now?_

* * *

Okay, so someone commented that my description of Hermione's skin in the last chapter was a little bit racist? I didn't think so and if it did, or does, I would like to humbly apologize as this was not my intention. I just wanted to show that the change to a different body was a very different, very shocking one for her.

Regardless, thank you very much for reading and I hope you liked the update! I'm a little stuck on this one in terms of plot, but I'm getting there! Please be patient with me :)


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